by Cheryl Bolen
Ivonne had frequently heard Emmy’s name whispered at elite gatherings. Usually spiteful remarks made behind fans by matrons long past their prime or on-the-shelf ladies, their voices shrill with envy.
Breathless from rushing down two corridors and the flight of stairs, Ivonne paused outside Father’s study. The black walnut door stood closed.
People murmured within, their voices a muted drone through the thick wood.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her skirt and squared her shoulders. With newfound resolve, she rapped twice. The carved door swung open before she lowered her hand. The study smelled of leather, tobacco, and Father’s cologne. She breathed in the familiar, comforting essence.
“Hullo, Sleeping Beauty. I’ve never known you to slumber this late.” Allen grinned and leaned down to peck her cheek. Stepping back, he examined her. “I must say, the rest did you good. You look exquisite today, sister.”
Pleased as Punch by the compliment, Ivonne placed her hand on his arm.
From his contrived messy hairstyle to his pristine knotted cravat and gleaming Hessians, Allen epitomized current fashion. Even the tobacco brown jacket he wore matched his hair to perfection and deepened his eyes to malachite. The next Viscount Wimpleton could claim exceptional looks, as could Mother and Father.
Ivonne, alone, possessed a sparrow’s drab plumage.
She smiled inwardly. Not for long although she’d held no aspirations of ever nearing Mother’s beauty. Raven haired and possessing the same unusual green eyes as Allen, Mother—at five and forty—outshone most women half her age. Today, the soft coral and peach gown complemented her flawless skin’s youthful glow.
Father cut quite a handsome figure as well. Tall and slender, he boasted a full head of chestnut hair sprinkled with gray at the sideburns. At two and fifty, his striking, almost foreign features garnered much attention from moon-eyed females. He claimed a notorious sheik lurked in the family tree several generations back.
Now that would be a tale worth hearing.
After closing the heavy door, Allen guided Ivonne further into the room. “What, were you prowling about last night instead of sleeping? Or did sweet dreams of handsome beaus keep you abed?”
Her heart lurched for a panicked instant, and she searched his humor-filled eyes. He couldn’t possibly know about her pre-dawn encounter with Falcon.
Allen winked.
She smiled as much in relief as at his teasing banter. No, he didn’t know.
“I assumed you’d be hard-pressed to sleep, too, brother dearest.” She grinned and whispered, “I saw the charming Miss Kingsley last night.”
A guarded expression entered Allen’s eyes, although his smile didn’t falter. “As did I, minx. I shall see her today too.”
Ivonne’s smile widened. “Now that is welcome news.”
Miss Rossington was out of the picture, thank God.
“Come along, you two.” Father pocketed his watch. “Allen and I have a four o’clock appointment at White’s. One I’m not looking forward to, I might add.”
Ivonne considered him. He appeared a trifle tense, and his attention repeatedly fell to the papers scattered atop his desk. Most irregular. Father typically kept his desk neat and tidy.
Mother, seated on a cherry-red damask sofa, smiled and held out her arms. “Darling, that gown does remarkable things to your skin, and your eyes are a spectacular shade of green today.”
Ivonne breathed an iota easier.
She’d been afraid her mother would detect traces of last night’s waterworks. Cosmetics hid the evidence quite nicely, and Ivonne also credited them for the improvement in her appearance. The transformation the light touch of rice power and lip rouge achieved proved remarkable, the boost in her self-assurance, nothing short of astonishing.
Mother twisted to catch Father’s attention. “Don’t you agree, Walter?”
Father glanced to his wife then squinted at Ivonne.
“Yes, you’re quite right, my dear.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ivonne, you do look exceptionally lovely this afternoon.”
She couldn’t contain her wide grin.
Precisely what she’d hoped for. Emmy could advise her on what other artifices Ivonne should purchase. She quite liked feeling attractive. She intended to utilize the cosmetics, and anything else her cousin recommended, on a daily basis.
She launched a silent prayer heavenward.
Let the gentlemen find my appearance pleasing as well.
Particularly one gentleman she sought to make jealous.
Now, if only she could learn to flirt.
After embracing her mother, Ivonne took a seat on the sofa.
Allen lounged against the desk, his countenance gone somber. He toed the edge of the Oriental carpet, seemingly distracted.
Ivonne met everyone’s gazes in turn. Shifting on the settee, she faced her mother. “You wished to see me?”
“Dear, an upset occurred last night.” Mother gave her a brittle smile.
Drat, drat, drat.
Ivonne dug her fingernails into the sofa’s piping.
Here we go.
What had Captain Kirkpatrick said? She itched to box his ears, the smelly tattlemonger.
Mother paused and looked to Father. A pinched expression wrinkled her forehead.
He inclined his head.
“To do with Luxmoore’s father,” Mother said.
Ivonne relaxed her grip. This wasn’t about the captain. Or the events in the arbor or on the terrace. “Nothing serious, I pray. Is everything well today?”
“No, no, not at all, I’m afraid.” Father sighed and tapped his pipe. He fingered the bowl. “His father died ... er ... unexpectedly last night. Poor Luxmoore learned of the tragedy while at our ball.”
“That’s awful.” Ivonne’s eyes welled with tears. Lord Luxmoore had always been unfailingly kind to her, and he had a delightful sense of humor.
Allen straightened and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve given my word we’ll not discuss the misfortune with anyone outside of this house except Faulkenhurst.”
Falcon? Where was he today, anyway? Had he departed for Suttoncliffe already? A surge of hurt seized her. She shrugged inwardly. So much the better for her plan to succeed. What he did was of no importance to her.
Liar.
Ivonne’s stomach growled and then rumbled again, much louder. She pressed a hand to her complaining middle. Except for those bites of cold toast in her room earlier, she’d eaten nothing since snaring two Shrewsbury biscuits from the kitchen yesterday afternoon.
“I shall certainly keep Luxmoore’s confidence.” She rose partway. “If that’s all, I am rather famished.”
Cook usually had a tasty treat or two, fresh from the oven. Ivonne could almost taste the warm seedcake, or maybe there’d be fresh maid of honor tarts.
Father raised his hand. “No, my dear, that’s not all.”
“Oh.” Ivonne dropped fully onto the sofa once more. What else was there? She searched her parents’ faces before settling on Allen’s.
His focus remained riveted on the carpet as he tormented the fringed edge with his boot.
“There’s something else?” She reluctantly forced the question past her lips.
An uncomfortable, pregnant pause followed. Her family looked at each other before their troubled gazes settled on her.
Dash it all.
So much for avoiding the Captain Kirkpatrick bumblebroth. Best to get it done with.
Ivonne stared at her hands clenched atop her lap. Her fingertips gleamed white.
“I’m sorry I ventured onto the terrace alone.” She scanned their strained faces again. “I wouldn’t have had I known Captain Kirkpatrick had arrived. He wasn’t invited, and I didn’t expect him to be so brazen as to come with—”
Father shushed her with a casual wave of his hand. “That wasn’t wise of you, but that’s not the issue we need to address.”
“Walter, must we? There’s no other reco
urse? You’re sure?” Mother’s eyes glimmered with tears, and her chin quivered.
Alarm seared Ivonne.
Mother didn’t cry in front of others.
Ivonne threw Allen a desperate look.
He stared at the floor, his mouth pressed into a grim ribbon.
Whatever was wrong?
Giving one curt nod, Father set down his pipe. “Ivonne, everyone at the ball last night—and by now, half of London—believes you are newly betrothed.”
“Is that what this is about?” She released a relieved laugh. “Well, I’m not. We’ll just have to refute that ludicrous chitchat.”
Chuckling, she flattened her palms on her knees, easing the stiffness from her numb fingers. “Le bon ton does love to make a hullabaloo out of nothing.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Ivy.” Allen crouched before her. He took her hands in his, giving them a squeeze. “You see, not only did Captain Kirkpatrick fuel that preposterous rumor, word of your good news reached Prinny.”
Her breath left her in a rush, and Ivonne gaped at her brother. “Prinny? The Prince Regent?”
Who else, goosecap?
She swallowed, not liking the direction this conversation headed. “What has he to do with this farce?”
Allen squeezed her hands again. “Seems he’s a particular friend of the Duke of Petheringstone, and that stinking lickspittle is as tight as a tick on a hog’s arse with Kirkpatrick.”
“Mind your tongue, Allen.” Mother dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. She wrinkled her nose the merest bit. “Though it’s true, Petheringstone has no more fondness for cleanliness than the captain.”
Why are they blathering on about bathing habits?
Ivonne slanted her head to meet Father’s gaze. “I don’t understand how or why the prince is involved.”
Father lifted an elaborate gold-trimmed, beribboned document clearly bearing the Regent’s insignia. “The prince has demanded an introduction to the groom, and Prinny’s announced he’ll attend the wedding.”
“Pardon?” Ivonne yanked her hands from Allen’s. “You cannot be serious. The Regent hasn’t spoken more than a dozen words to me since I was presented at court.”
All pretense of calmness splintered to pieces. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to lessen the sudden pounding in her head. She darted a frantic glance to her father. “And I don’t recall Father being a particular favorite of his either.”
Unable to sit a moment longer, Ivonne surged to her feet.
“Why would he insist on attending my wedding?” She pointed at her chest before flapping her hand in the air. “An imaginary wedding at that?”
Tears pricked her eyelids and clogged her throat.
Father came round from behind his desk. Wrapping her in his embrace, he held her head against his chest and awkwardly patted her back.
“I’m afraid Petheringstone is an old enemy. I believe he suspects there’s no groom and hopes to get us—your mother and I—deep in suds with His Highness.”
Mother stood and touched Ivonne’s shoulder. “Petheringstone never forgave your father for winning my hand in marriage.”
“That’s true.” Father’s voice rumbled deep in his chest as if he struggled with his emotions. “But more on point, he never forgave me for besting him in the duel we fought over you.”
“Duel?” Allen and Ivonne chimed as one.
Father sighed before kissing the top of Ivonne’s head. “Yes. He fired before the count finished. By the grace of God, he only nicked my shoulder.”
“A drunken one-eyed goat herder has better aim than Petheringstone.” Mother gazed at Father with admiration.
“True, the man’s always been a wretched shot, though his skill with a blade is far worse.” Father took a step away from Ivonne. “I had no desire to kill the blackguard, so I shot him in the foot, thinking the leather of his boot offered him some protection. He’s been lame since.”
“Some jealous cawker gets to dictate my future?” Ivonne couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice.
Mother grasped Ivonne’s shoulder, turning her until she faced her mother. “I’m sorry, darling. There’s no help for it. The duke, much like Captain Kirkpatrick, is a man obsessed.”
Cupping Ivonne’s face, her mother attempted a brave smile that better resembled a watery grimace.
“Petheringstone has the prince’s ear and his favor. The Regent won’t be dissuaded. That,” Mother pointed to the oval desk where the document lay, “is, in effect, a royal decree.”
“This is utterly ridiculous,” Ivonne protested. “Who does he think he is, meddling in our private affairs? This is 1818, for pity’s sake.”
Allen slapped his thigh, his expression fierce. “Once he gets a notion in his pickled head, there’s no changing his mind. His disfavor isn’t something anyone wants to be at the receiving end of, I assure you.”
He met Father’s troubled gaze. “I’m certain you recollect what happened to Lord Forester when he ignored His Highness’s suggestion that the baron ought to wed Mrs. Ellington.”
“Mrs. Ellington?” Ivonne didn’t recall her. And, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen the baron at all this Season. “Who is Mrs. Ellington?”
Allen fumbled in pouring himself a glass of sherry and splashed a few droplets on the rosewood cabinet. “One of Prinny’s ... ah ...”
“Mistresses who found herself in the family way.” Pink tinted Mother’s high cheekbones.
Ivonne fought the urge to roll her eyes skyward. For heaven’s sake, they acted like she had no idea such indiscretions occurred. Half the ton engaged in dalliances.
Father nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ruined the poor man and his family. Last I heard, to keep a roof above his two sisters’ and invalid mother’s heads, Forester married another of Prinny’s cast-offs.”
Bother, blast, and damnation! Surely this is a terrible nightmare, and I’ll awaken any moment.
Father returned to his chair behind the cumbersome mahogany partners’ desk. Frowning, he read the letter from the prince again. He sighed and, apparently defeated, slouched against the leather. He gazed at her, his eyes dark with regret.
“Ivonne, I’m afraid we’re at point non plus.” His voice caught as he spoke. “You’ll have to pick a suitor to bring up to scratch. If you don’t, I will.”
She gasped and clutched Mother’s clammy hand.
“The wedding is two months from this Friday.” Father tapped the paper, his voice gaining strength. “Prinny expects to meet the groom within a fortnight.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
That same day, across Town
Eyes narrowed, Chance stared at Samuel Tobbins. Assistant to Franklin Belamont, Chance’s solicitor, Tobbins wiped his forehead with his limp handkerchief for the fourth time. The diminutive fellow perspired to such a degree, Chance half expected him to slosh when he walked.
“I assure you, your file hasn’t been misplaced.” The man flitted about the office like a disoriented moth, searching for the missing folder.
Arms crossed, Chance arched a brow.
“Where are they?” Tobbins bent to peer beneath a haphazard pile of papers atop an otherwise organized desk. Clicking his tongue, he scampered to another stack of files and began flipping through them. “Where in the world are they?”
“You mean to tell me you don’t believe any of my correspondence or papers are here?” Chance gestured round the tidy office. “You think, perhaps, they’ve been forwarded to Suttoncliffe? The entire six years’ worth?”
This was what came of having the same solicitor as Father and Thad.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Faulkenhurst, but yes.” Nodding his balding head, Tobbins pushed his spectacles up his reedy nose. “I’m afraid that must be the case, for I cannot find a single document of yours.”
He wrung his hands together, his watery hazel eyes huge and worried. “I expect Mr. Belamont’s return from Rochester any day now, certainly not upward of a
week. He can set you straight on the matter, I’m sure.”
Tobbins riffled through another pile of papers on a shelf behind the solicitor’s desk.
“Aha,” he exclaimed holding up a letter and practically dancing with glee. One would have thought he’d found a large banknote from his enthusiastic reaction. “Here’s a letter for you.”
He scuttled to where Chance sat. With the aplomb of a royal courtier, he presented the missive.
After breaking the seal, Chance scanned the short correspondence.
Exasperated by Chance’s failure to speedily sign the marriage agreement—for God’s sake, what did Lambert expect? Chance had been in India—his lordship had foisted his daughter off on another poor sot.
Chance examined the letter’s date. April.
All his worry had been for naught.
He refolded the paper and slid it into his coat pocket. A wry grin crept across his face.
One monumental obstacle out of the way.
“Good news, sir?” Tobbins waited, an expectant look on his face.
“Exceedingly good news.”
Chance shifted in the uncomfortable, smallish chair, far more appropriate for waiting in the hall than a lengthy meeting in a solicitor’s office. His missing fingers picked today to ache unbearably. Every twinge reminded him of last night and the pleasure of playing the piano with Ivy.
And kissing and caressing her.
That kiss. God help him, but he’d been hard put to keep from ravishing her right there in the drawing room while her parents and brother slept above. Her response had been a precious and unexpected gift. He’d never lost control that completely or quickly. Ivy was like nectar to his parched soul, balm to his wounded spirit.
Then she’d wept, and the vile truth hit him with the impact of a cannonball. He’d tasted her tears, the salt bitter on his lips. More rancorous was the despair that seized his heart, destroying the fragile remnant of hope buried there.
She couldn’t overlook his disfigurement.
Anger and hurt had overwhelmed his good sense, and he’d been cruel.